


Scalded

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Burns, Gen, Grief, everyone is tired of people dying, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 12:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Between protecting the living and seeking justice for the dead, there was very little time to look after oneself. DeBryn looks after Morse.





	Scalded

The work of Cowley Station went on despite one tired pathologist trudging up the stairs. Constables ran up and down past him, WPCs tapped along with their arms full of files and papers on the landing above, down below in the foyer an unruly hard sleeper shouting obscenities was escorted up to the desk sergeant. The station was its own unique habitat, all discordant noise and loud personalities, one that existed in stark contrast to the silence of the mortuary. 

It was an inescapable reminder that life went on, even if for one poor girl the world had stopped. Tracey Staverton, just turned 18. A promising first-year at Lady Matilda’s, she had been knocked down by a lorry two nights ago while crossing the road erratically after attending a party. LSD was strongly indicated. 

DeBryn arrived in the CID office to find DS Strange delivering a cup of steaming tea to Morse, who at 11am was looking like he had had a long day. His usual good posture was startlingly absent, back bent over his desk and head propped up wearily by his hand. DeBryn stepped over; Strange noticed him and faded considerately into the background.

“Very collegial atmosphere here,” DeBryn remarked, glancing down at the cuppa resting on top of Morse’s in tray. Morse looked up, and DeBryn was struck by the emptiness in his eyes. They had a hollow, glassy appearance, and had Morse looked peaky DeBryn would have suspected a fever. 

“Oh, hello doctor. Can I do something for you?” his mouth twitched upwards; only a generous man would have called it a smile. 

DeBryn raised the manila file in his hand. “I brought the file on Tracey Staverton by. No need for a complete autopsy; there were two corroborating witness statements.” He was thankful for that, at least. 

“You’d better drop it off with Inspector Thursday, he’s getting ready to sign off on the case.”

DeBryn’s eyebrows rose. “Already?”

Morse took a deep breath, straightening with it like a sail catching the wind. “We’ve made an arrest. Her best friend Poppy Haversmith confessed to procuring the LSD. She was beside herself,” he added, morosely. DeBryn looked harder at the young man and noticed the absence of a pocket handkerchief, and the wet spot on his lapel. Arresting officer to an 18 year-old girl who had just wanted a good time. 

DeBryn shook his head. “What jobs we have.”

“I suppose someone has to do them,” answered Morse; he didn’t sound very convinced. His eyes skated over DeBryn’s shoulder; DeBryn glanced behind him to see a short, ruddy-faced man being directed towards Morse. 

“I suppose that’s my cue.” The doctor nodded to Morse and took his leave, stepping over to Thursday’s office. The door was closed and through the window DeBryn could see Thursday on the telephone; the inspector caught sight of him and held up a finger in silent request for a moment.

DeBryn turned slowly round on his heels, eyes roaming about the CID office. His attention was caught by the man striding over to Morse – he was short but bulky, and he marched with quick, violent energy. 

“You Morse?” he demanded, reaching the corner of Morse’s desk. Morse nodded and, before anyone could act, the man grabbed the cup of tea off Morse’s desk and threw it in his face. The scalding liquid splashed over his skin, Morse kicking away from his desk and throwing his hands up.

At Morse’s shocked cry the CID leapt into action. Strange and DC Parks vaulted out of their chairs and shot over to grab the man, who was now shouting profanity and accusations at Morse. Others hurried over to help, clogging up the narrow space between the desks. And DeBryn shoved his way into the fray to Morse’s side.

Morse had his face in his hands; what little DeBryn could see of his skin was already turning pink. Hot tea was dripping down onto the floor and puddling there. 

“Come on, Morse. With me.” He grabbed the constable by the shoulder and guided him across the chaotic room to the men’s loo. Inside the cream-coloured paint was chipping and the white tiles had rust-red stains over the caulking. DeBryn turned the cold tap on to full and pushed Morse’s head down; Morse stuck his face under the stream, pulling a hand up to direct more of the water over his skin. A constable DeBryn didn’t know poked his head inside the door; DeBryn sent him off in search of a flannel. 

After nearly five minutes had elapsed DeBryn grasped Morse’s shoulder gently, pulling him out from under the stream of water. Morse rose, wiping his face with his hands, and looking at himself in the tarnished mirror. 

His skin was pinker than usual, hue intensifying towards red over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, as though he had spent too much time out in the sun. His blue eyes were clear. 

“Morse? Look at me.” DeBryn waited for Morse to turn to face him, his expression one of apprehension. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, and saw that Morse’s eyelids were slightly pinker than his otherwise pale skin, but nowhere near the boiled-shrimp colour of his nose and cheeks. “Alright, open. Look left. Look right. Focus here,” he held up a finger and watched Morse’s eyes focus quickly on it. “Any pain or discomfort?”

“No. Everything seems… it seems fine,” he said, a little shakily. 

“Good. It doesn’t look as though much of the liquid got into your eyes. I would recommend aloe for the burns.”

The door swung open and Thursday stepped in. “Morse?” he asked, looking to his constable. 

“I’m alright sir. Just a light burn, hardly more than a sunburn. It should flake off soon enough.”

Some of the tension went out of Thursday’s shoulders. “Good. That was Mr Staverton; he’s down in lock-up now.”

DeBryn watched a flicker of pain pass over Morse’s face, one that had nothing to do with the burns. “He’s heard about the LSD, then,” he said. Thursday nodded. 

“He doesn’t believe it. And he won’t, without proof.”

“There will be none of that,” said DeBryn. “No physical traces remain, not at usual dosages. And as I was telling Morse, there will be no autopsy.”

Thursday shook his head slowly. “I doubt he would want it anyway. He doesn’t know what he wants, just…”

“Just for his daughter not to be dead,” finished Morse, quietly. Droplets of water were trickling down the sides of his face from his dampened hair, slowly soaking into his collar. He looked weary and downtrodden, as though the wheels of life had rolled over him and left him battered and broken. 

“You should get home and change,” said Thursday at last, looking down at Morse’s tea-drenched shirt and jacket. “Can’t have you going about smelling of Twinings.”

“Right.” 

The door popped open again and the same constable from earlier came in holding a towel, which he handed off to Morse. Morse, looking dubiously at it, took it after a moment and ran it over his hair. 

“I can run you home,” offered DeBryn. Morse handed back the towel wearily and nodded at him.

“I’d appreciate it.”

  
***

“Will you press charges?” asked DeBryn on the way back to Morse’s flat. Morse snorted.

“For having tea thrown in my face? I’d be laughed out of the station. Besides…” he looked out the window, raising one hand to trace along the glass. “It’s understandable. I’ll talk to him later. When he’s had more time to digest it all.”

“I’m not sure there’s enough time in the world for that task, Morse.”

Morse passed a hand over his eyes. “You may be right. But what else is there to be done?”

DeBryn looked over at Morse, still young and already so saturated by tragedy and loss. Between protecting the living and seeking justice for the dead, there was very little time to look after oneself. “Remind yourself that there’s still joy and beauty in the world, Morse. If we forget that, it’s all for naught.”

Morse sighed. “Some days, that’s what it feels like.”

“And some days, your friendly pathologist takes you out to lunch at the pub to take your mind off it. Right?”

Morse looked over to him, indecision playing plainly across his face. 

“I wasn’t aware police officers often vacillated when free food is on offer,” added DeBryn, raising his eyebrows. 

Morse gave a tiny hint of a smile. “Alright then. We’ll have lunch.”

DeBryn drew the Morris up at the kerb beside Morse’s building. “Correct choice,” he said, watching Morse step out and close the door behind him then walk towards his building, shoulders hunched and back rounded like an old man’s. 

Perhaps together, they could convince each other that life went on. 

END


End file.
